


Worms Shall Try

by GloriaMundi



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, M/M, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Cecil hasn't <i>tried</i> to lose his virginity. Oh no. But the darned thing won’t stay lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worms Shall Try

It's not like Cecil hasn't _tried_ to lose his virginity. Oh no. But the darned thing won't stay lost. It keeps scuttling back at the most inappropriate moments. Sometimes it giggles. Cecil still can't remember his first and last date with Earl Harlan -- they went to Big Rico's Pizza, where Cecil ordered the squid ink and black pudding special and Earl opted for the gorgonzola and spam ten-inch deep dish; both were delicious; it was only when they went back to Cecil's apartment for coffee that the evening started to go horribly, inevitably _wrong_ \-- without shuddering.

He's beginning to accept that he's doomed. Sure, yeah, everyone in Night Vale is doomed: but Cecil is doomed more specifically, doomed to die a virgin, without knowing the unsettlingly squelchy bliss of another's body. Oh, his dates with Carlos are marvellous! But Cecil knows better than to hope that their love might be consummated. He restricts himself to touching Carlos' hand, running fingers through his glorious, perfect hair with its distinguished touch of white at the temples, nudging his shoulder. Nothing below the rib cage. 

In truth, Cecil has only the vaguest notion of what losing one's virginity might involve. He imagines capturing his virginity - carefully, of course, with an eye to all those undulating tentacles and barbed appendages! -- and imprisoning it in a bottle, or (better) one of Old Woman Josie's Mason jars, the kind she fills up with mushroom jam for Thanksgiving: but there's no ocean nearby into which he can throw it, and besides, someone in a distant land might happen upon the bottle, washed up on a foreign beach, some day, and open it, and return it to Cecil via FedEx. 

Though FedEx won't generally deliver to Night Vale, because (they claim) it is cursed. So, actually, that plan could work. 

Or he imagines wandering nonchalantly towards the place where the Dog Park would be if it existed, then executing an elaborate manoeuvre that leaves his virginity _inside_ the Dog Park, and himself safely beyond its fence. But what if one of the hooded figures retrieved his virginity, and made a pet of it? Cecil doesn't like to think about the consequences of _that_.

He's resigned himself, by now, to the lifelong presence of his unwanted … companion? Condition? Perhaps his affliction is just another one of those things that make their little community so special. Perhaps it's an honour, a way of identifying him as the best person to sacrifice in the civic bloodstone circle, over in Mission Park, when the stars are right. 

But sometimes Cecil does wish he had someone to talk to about the fact that his virginity just won't stay lost. Carlos would be the obvious person, being a scientist as well as Cecil's , but he is always very busy doing Science. Cecil is not entirely sure that he knows what this involves, but he does know that Carlos is often tired, or ichor-burnt, or trailed by a small group of mute, deformed children. Not in front of the children, thinks Cecil. 

In the end, it's Carlos who raises the subject. He's cooked a delicious dinner for Cecil, and the two are relaxing on the couch in Cecil's apartment with a bottle of wine and some reruns on The Weather Channel. Carlos' hand (which is attached to Carlos' arm, which is attached to Carlos' incredible brain) creeps under the Afghan, creeps towards Cecil's thigh, creeps higher ...

"I, I'm sorry!" squeaks Cecil, hurling himself off the couch and landing in an ungainly heap on the rug. Behind him, Al Roker is talking about a massive sandstorm that's going to hit the area tomorrow. It's so much better watching reruns. There's no need to be anxious about something that's already happened. 

Though Cecil is certainly anxious right now.

"Cecil," says Carlos, in his beautiful mahogany voice, "I didn't mean to -- was I going too fast?"

"No!" says Cecil. "No. It's. I mean. You know. I, ah. I haven't."

"Do you mean you --"

Cecil nods miserably. "It won't leave me."

Carlos looks puzzled. It's a good look on him, but what isn't?

"My v-v-virginity," Cecil manages. He can feel his skin burning. Either he's blushing, or that unusual blue light emanating from Station Management's office actually was radioactive and he's starting to manifest the symptoms of radiation dermatitis. Okay, he's blushing. "I've tried to lose it, but it just keeps coming back!"

Carlos smiles, that particular smile that shows off all of his perfect, tombstone-white teeth. "I see," he purrs. "So, every time ..."

"Every time," Cecil confirms. There's a lump in his throat. Perhaps it's his virginity emerging to screw things up with Carlos.

"I would be interested," says Carlos, sliding off the couch and wrapping his arms around Cecil, "in conducting some serious scientific experiments concerning the persistence of your virginity."

On the TV, Al Roker is urging residents of affected areas to remain indoors until the sandstorm has passed. Cecil, who is already indoors, presses closer to Carlos' warm, muscular body, enjoying the thrum of blood and ichor in his veins, enjoying the pounding of Carlos' heart and the corresponding agitation of the potato-shaped lump behind his own ribs, enjoying -- and _this_ has never happened before -- the roiling, unfolding sensation as his much-maligned virginity readies itself for battle. 

"Perhaps, " Carlos continues, pressing a heated kiss to Cecil's heated skin, "if we can stimulate it to manifest itself, we can study it in isolation. Together."

"I love it," Cecil confesses in a whisper, trying to remember if there's a leftover Mason jar under the sink, "when you talk dirty."

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry about the title. Blame Andrew Marvell's _To His Coy Mistress_ :
>
>> then worms shall try  
> That long preserved virginity
> 
> ... which is also where the Mason jars (British variant = Kilner jars) come in, of course.


End file.
